MARTIN HYDE
THE DUKE'S MESSENGER
by John Masefield
CONTENTS
I. I LEAVE HOME
II. I LEAVE HOME AGAIN
III. I LEAVE HOME A THIRD TIME
IV. I LEAVE HOME FOR THE LAST TIME
V. I GO TO SEA
VI. THE SEA! THE SEA!
VII. LAND RATS AND WATER RATS
VIII. I MEET MY FRIEND
IX. I SEE MORE OF MY FRIEND
X. SOUNDS IN THE NIGHT
XI. AURELIA
XII. BRAVE CAPTAIN BARLOW
XIII. IT BREEZES UP
XIV. A DRINK OF SHERBET
XV. THE ROAD TO LYME
XVI. THE LANDING
XVII. A VOICE AT DAWN
XVIII. I SPEAK WITH AURELIA
XIX. I MEET THE CLUB MEN
XX. THE SQUIRE'S HOUSE
XXI. MY FRIEND AURELIA AND HER UNCLE
XXII. THE PRIEST'S HOLE
XXIII. FREE
XXIV THE END
MARTIN HYDE
THE DUKE'S MESSENGER
by
John Masefield
CHAPTER I. I LEAVE HOME
I was born at Oulton, in Suffolk, in the year 1672. I know not the
day of my birth, but it was in March, a day or two after the Dutch war
began. I know this, because my father, who was the clergyman at Oulton,
once told me that in the night of my birth a horseman called upon him,
at the rectory, to ask the way to Lowestoft. He was riding from London
with letters for the Admiral, he said; but had missed his way somewhere
beyond Beccles. He was mud from head to foot (it had been a wet March)
but he would not stay to dry himself. He reined in at the door, just as
I was born, as though he were some ghost, bringing my life in his saddle
bags. Then he shook up his horse, through the mud, towards Lowestoft, so
that the splashing of the horse's hoofs must have been the first sound
heard by me. The Admiral was gone when he reached Lowestoft, poor man,
so all his trouble was wasted. War wastes more energy, I suppose, than
any other form of folly. I know that on the East Coast, during all the
years of my childhood, this Dutch war wasted the energies of thousands.
The villages had to drill men, each village according to its size, to
make an army in case the Dutch should land. Long after the war was over,
they drilled thus. I remember them on the field outside the church,
drilling after Sunday service, firing at a stump of a tree. Once some
wag rang the alarm-bell at night, to fetch them out of their beds. Then
there were the smugglers; they, too, were caused by the war. After the
fighting there was a bitter feeling against the Dutch. Dutch goods were
taxed heavily (spice, I remember, was made very dear thus) to pay for
the war. The smugglers began then to land their goods secretly, all
along the coast, so that they might avoid the payment of the duty. The
farmers were their friends; for they liked to have their gin cheap.
Indeed, they used to say that in an agueish place like the fens, gin was
a necessity, if one would avoid fever. Often, at night, in the winter,
when I was walking home from Lowestoft school, I would see the farmers
riding to the rendezvous in the dark, with their horses' hoofs all
wrapped up in sacks, to make no noise.
I lived for twelve years at Oulton. I learned how to handle a boat
there, how to swim, how to skate, how to find the eggs of the many wild
fowl in the reeds. In those days the Broad country was a very wild land,
half of it swamp. My father gave me a coracle on my tenth birthday. In
this little boat I used to explore the country for many miles, pushing
up creeks among the reeds, then watching, in the pools (far out of the
world it seemed) for ruffs or wild duck. I was a hardy boy, much older
than my years, like so many only children. I used to go away, sometimes,
for two or three days together, with my friend John Halmer, Captain
Halmer's son, taking some bread, with a blanket or two, as my ship's
stores. We used to paddle far up the Waveney to an island hidden in
reeds. We were the only persons who knew of that island. We were like
little kings there. We built a rough sort of tent-hut there every
summer. Then we would pass the time there deliciously, now bathing, now
fishing, but always living on what we caught. John, who was a wild lad,
much older than I, used to go among the gipsies in their great winter
camp at Oulton. He learned many strange tricks from them. He was a good
camp-companion. I think that the last two years of my life at Oulton
were the happiest years of my life. I have never cared for dry or hilly
countries since. Wherever I have been in the world, I have always longed
for the Broads, where the rivers wander among reeds for miles, losing
themselves in thickets of reeds. I have always thought tenderly of the
flat land, where windmills or churches are the only landmarks, standing
up above the mist, in the loneliness of the fens. But when I was nearly
thirteen years old (just after the death of Charles the Second) my
father died, leaving me an orphan. My uncle, Gabriel Hyde, a man about
town, was my only relative. The vicar of Lowestoft wrote to him, on my
behalf. A fortnight later (the ways were always very foul in the winter)
my uncle's man came to fetch me to London. There was a sale of my
father's furniture. His books were sent off to his college at Cambridge
by the Lowestoft carrier. Then the valet took me by wherry to Norwich,
where we caught a weekly coach to town. That was the last time I ever
sailed on the Waveney as a boy, that journey to Norwich. When I next saw
the Broads, I was a man of thirty-five. I remember how strangely small
the country seemed to me when I saw it after my wanderings. But this is
away from my tale. All that I remember of the coach-ride was my arrival
late at night at the London inn, a dark house full of smells, from which
the valet led me to my uncle's house.
I lay awake, that first night, much puzzled by the noise, fearing that
London would be all streets, a dismal place. When I fell asleep, I was
waked continually by chiming bells. In the morning, early, I was roused
by the musical calling made by milkmen on their rounds, with that
morning's milk for sale. At breakfast my uncle told me not to go into
the street without Ephraim, his man; for without a guide, he said, I
should get lost. He warned me that there were people in London who made
a living by seizing children (“kidnapping” or “trepanning” them, as it
was called) to sell to merchant-captains bound for the plantations. “So
be very careful, Martin,” he said. “Do not talk to strangers.” He went
for his morning walk after this, telling me that I might run out to play
in the garden.
I went out of doors feeling that London must be a very terrible place,
if the folk there went about counting all who met them as possible
enemies. I was homesick for the Broads, where everybody, even bad men,
like the worst of the smugglers, was friendly to me. I hated all this
noisy city, so full of dirty jumbled houses. I longed to be in my
coracle on the Waveney, paddling along among the reeds, chucking pebbles
at the water-rats. But when I went out into the garden I found that even
London held something for me, not so good as the Broads, perhaps, but
pleasant in its way.
Now before I go further, I must tell you that my uncle's house was one
of the old houses in Billingsgate. It stood in a narrow, crowded lane,
at the western end of Thames Street, close to the river. Few of the
houses thereabouts were old; for the fire of London had nearly destroyed
that part of the city, but my uncle's house, with a few more in the
same lane, being built of brick, had escaped. The bricks of some of the
houses were scorched black. I remember, also, at the corner house, three
doors from my uncle's house, the melted end of a water pipe, hanging
from the roof like a long leaden icicle, just as it had run from the
heat eighteen years before. I used to long for that icicle: it would
have made such fine bullets for my sling. I have said that Fish Lane,
where my uncle lived, was narrow. It was very narrow. The upper stories
of the houses opposite could be touched from my bed-room window with an
eight-foot fishing rod. If one leaned well out, one could see right into
their upper rooms. You could even hear the people talking in them.
At the back of the house there was a garden of potherbs. It sloped down
to the river-bank, where there were stairs to the water. The stairs
were covered in, so as to form a boat-house, in which (as I learned
afterwards) my uncle's skiffs were kept. You may be sure that I lost
no time in getting down to the water, after I had breakfasted with my
uncle, on the morning after my arrival.
A low stone parapet, topped by iron rails, shut off the garden from the
beach. Just beyond the parapet, within slingshot, as I soon proved, was
the famous Pool of London, full of ships of all sorts, some with flags
flying. The mild spring sun (it was early in April) made the sight
glorious. There must have been a hundred ships there, all marshalled in
ranks, at double-moorings, head to flood. Boats full of merchandise were
pulling to the wharves by the Custom House. Men were working aloft on
the yards, bending or unbending sails. In some ships the sails hung
loose, drying in the sun. In others, the men were singing out as they
walked round the capstan, hoisting goods from the hold. One of the ships
close to me was a beautiful little Spanish schooner, with her name La
Reina in big gold letters on her transom. She was evidently one of those
very fast fruit boats, from the Canary Islands, of which I had heard the
seamen at Oulton speak. She was discharging oranges into a lighter, when
I first saw her. The sweet, heavy smell of the bruised peels scented the
river for many yards.
I was looking at this schooner, wishing that I could pass an hour in her
hold, among those delicious boxes, when a bearded man came on deck from
her cabin. He looked at the shore, straight at myself as I thought,
raising his hand swiftly as though to beckon me to him. A boat pushed
out instantly, in answer to the hand, from the garden next to the one
in which I stood. The waterman, pulling to the schooner, talked with the
man for a moment, evidently settling the amount of his fare. After the
haggling, my gentleman climbed into the boat by a little rope-ladder at
the stern. Then the boatman pulled away upstream, going on the last of
the flood, within twenty yards of where I stood.
I had watched them idly, attracted, in the beginning, by that sudden
raising of the hand. But as they passed me, there came a sudden puff
of wind, strong enough to flurry the water into wrinkles. It lifted the
gentleman's hat, so that he saved it only by a violent snatch which
made the boat rock. As he jammed the hat down he broke or displaced some
string or clip near his ears. At any rate his beard came adrift on the
side nearest to me. The man was wearing a false beard. He remedied the
matter at once, very cleverly, so that I may have been the only witness;
but I saw that the boatman was in the man's secret, whatever it was. He
pulled hard on his starboard oar, bringing the boat partly across the
current, thus screening him from everybody except the workers in the
ships. It must have seemed to all who saw him that he was merely pulling
to another arch of London Bridge.
I was not sure of the man's face. It seemed handsome; that was all that
I could say of it. But I was fascinated by the mystery. I wondered
why he was wearing a false beard. I wondered what he was doing in the
schooner. I imagined all sorts of romantic plots in which he was taking
part. I watched his boat go through the Bridge with the feeling that
I was sharing in all sorts of adventures already. There was a fall of
water at the Bridge which made the river dangerous there even on a flood
tide. I could see that the waves there would be quite enough for such a
boat without the most tender handling. I watched to see how they would
pass through. Both men stood up, facing forwards, each taking an oar.
They worked her through, out of sight, in a very clever fashion; which
set me wondering again what this handsome gentleman might be, who worked
a boat so well.
I hung about at the end of the garden until dinner time, hoping that
they would return. I watched every boat which came downstream, finding
a great pleasure in the watermen's skill, for indeed the water at the
Bridge was frightful; only a strong nerve could venture on it. But the
boat did not come back, though one or two other boats brought people, or
goods, to the stairs of the garden beside me. I could not see into the
garden; that party wall was too high.
I did not go indoors again till Ephraim came to fetch me, saying that it
was time I washed my hands for dinner. I went to my room; but instead
of washing my hands, I leaned out of the window to watch a dancing bear
which was sidling about in the lane, just below, while his keeper made
a noise on the panpipes. A little crowd of idlers was gathered round the
bear. Some of them were laughing at the bear, some at his keeper. I saw
two boys sneaking about among the company; they were evil-looking
little ruffians, with that hard look in the eyes which always marks the
thoroughly wicked. As I watched, one of them slipped his hand into
a man's pocket, then withdrew it, passing something swiftly to his
companion, who walked unconcernedly away. I ran out of doors at once, to
the man who had been robbed.
“Sir,” I said, when he had drawn away from the little crowd. “Have you
not been robbed of something?”
He turned to look down on me, searching his pockets with both hands. It
gave me a start to see him, for he was the bearded man who had passed
me in the boat that morning. You may be sure that I took a good note of
him. He was a handsome, melancholy-looking man, with a beard designed to
make him look fairer than he really was.
“Robbed of something?” he repeated in a quiet voice. “Yes, I have been
robbed of something.” It seemed to me that he turned pale, when he found
that he had been robbed. “Did you see it?” he asked. “Don't point. Just
describe him to me. No. Don't look round, boy. Tell me without looking
round.”
“Sir,” I said, “do you see two little boys moving about among the people
there?”
“Yes,” he said.
“It's the boy with the bit of broken pipe in his hat who has the,
whatever it was, sir, I'm sure. I saw it all.”
“I see,” he said. “That's the coveter. Let this be a warning to you,
boy, never to stop in a crowd to watch these street-performers. Where
were you, when you saw it?”
“Up above there, sir. In that house.”
“In Mr. Hyde's house. Do you live there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Since when? Not for long, surely?”
“No, sir. Only since yesterday. I'm Mr. Hyde's nephew.”
“Ah! Indeed. And that is your room up there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where do you come from then? You've not been in town before. What is
your father?”
“My father's dead, sir. I come from Oulton. My father was rector there.”
“Ah,” he said quietly. “Now give this penny to the bear-ward.”
While I was giving the penny to the keeper, the strange man edged among
the lookers-on, apparently watching the bear's antics, till he was just
behind the pickpocket's accomplice. Watching his time, he seized the boy
from behind by both wrists.
“This boy's a pickpocket,” he cried aloud. “Stop that other boy. He's an
accomplice.” The other boy, who had just taken a purse, started to
run, letting the booty drop. A boatman who was going towards the river,
tripped him up with an oar so that he fell heavily. He lay still where
he had fallen (all the wind was knocked out of him) so that he was
easily secured. The boy who had been seized by the bearded man made no
attempt to get away. He was too firmly held. Both boys were then marched
off to the nearest constable where (after a strict search), they were
locked into a cellar till the morrow. The crowd deserted the bear-ward
when the cry of pickpockets was raised. They followed my mysterious
friend to the constable's house, hoping, no doubt, that they would be
able to crowd in to hear the constable bully the boys as he searched
them. One or two, who pretended to have missed things, managed to get
in. The bearded man told me to come in, as he said that I should be
needed as a witness. The others were driven out into the street, where,
I suppose, their monkey-minds soon found other game, a horse fallen
down, or a drunken woman in the gutter, to divert their idleness. Such
sights seem to attract a London crowd at once.
The boys were strictly searched by the constable. The booty from their
pockets was turned out upon the table.
“Now, sir,” said the constable to the bearded man, after he had made a
note of my story. “What is it they 'ad of you, sir?”
“A shagreen leather pocket-book,” said the man. “There it is.”
“This one?” said the constable.
“Yes.”
“Oh,” said the constable, opening the clasps, so that he could examine
the writing on the leaves. “What's inside?”
“A lot of figures,” said the man. “Sums. Problems in arithmetic.”
“Right,” said the constable, handing over the book.
“Here you are, sir. What name, sir?”
“Edward Jermyn.”
“Edward German,” the constable repeated.
“Where d' you live, sir?”
“At Mr. Scott's in Fish Lane.”
“Right, sir,” said the constable, writing down the address, “You must
appear tomorrow at ten before Mr. Garry, the magistrate. You, too, young
master, to give your evidence.”
At this the boys burst out crying, begging us not to appear, using all
those deceptive arts which the London thieves practise from childhood.
I, who was new to the world's deceits, was touched to the marrow by
their seeming misery. The constable roughly silenced them. “I know you,”
he said. “I had my eye on you two ever since Christmas. Now you'll go
abroad to do a bit of honest work, instead of nickin' pockets. Stow your
blubbering now, or I'll give you Mogador Jack.” He produced “Mogador
Jack,” a supple shark's backbone, from behind the door. The tears
stopped on the instant.
After this, the bearded man showed me the way back to Fish Lane, where
Ephraim, who was at the door, looking out for me, gave me a shrewd
scolding, for venturing out without a guide.
Mr. Jermyn silenced him by giving him a shilling. The next day, Mr.
Jermyn took me to the magistrate's house, where the two thieves were
formally committed for trial. Mr. Jermyn told me that they would
probably be transported for seven years, on conviction at the
Assizes; but that, as they were young, the honest work abroad, in the
plantations, might be the saving of them. “So do not be so sad, Mr.
Martin,” he said. “You do not know how good a thing you did when you
looked out of the window yesterday. Do you know, by the way, how much my
book is worth?”
“No, sir,” I said.
“Well. It's worth more than the King's crown,” he said.
“But I thought it was only sums, sir.”
“Yes,” he said, with a strange smile. “But some sums have to do with a
great deal of money. Now I want you to think tonight of something to the
value of twenty pounds or so. I want to give you something as a reward
for your smartness. Don't decide at once. Think it over. Here we are at
our homes, you see. We live just opposite to each other.”
We were standing at this moment in the narrow lane at my uncle's door.
As he spoke, he raised his hand in a farewell salute with that dignity
of gesture which was in all his movements. On the instant, to my
surprise, the door of the house opposite opened slowly, till it was
about half open. No one opened it, as I could see; it swung back of
itself. After my friend had stepped across the threshold it swung to
with a click in the same mysterious way. It was as though it had a
knowledge of Mr. Jermyn's mind, as though the raised hand had had a
magical power over it. When I went indoors to my uncle's house I was
excited. I felt that I was in the presence of something romantic,
something mysterious. I liked Mr. Jermyn. He had been very kind. But
I kept wondering why he wore a false beard, why his door opened so
mysteriously, why he valued a book of sums above the worth of a King's
crown. As for his offer of a present, I did not like it, though he had
not given me time to say as much. I remembered how indignant the Oulton
wherrymen had been when a gentleman offered them money for saving his
daughter's life. I had seen the man robbed, what else could I have done?
I could have done no less than tell him. I resolved that I would refuse
the gift when next I saw him.
At dinner that day, I was full of Mr. Jermyn, much to my uncle's
annoyance.
“Who is this Mr. Jermyn, Martin?” he asked. “I don't know him. Is he a
gentleman?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“Do you know him, Ephraim?”
“No, sir. I know him by sight, sir. Gentleman who lives over the way,
Mr. Hyde.”
“That's Mr. Scott's, though.”
“No, sir. Mr. Jermyn's been there ever since February.”
“But the house is empty.”
“The lower floor is furnished, sir.”
“Do you know anything of him? Do you know his man?”
“They say he's in the fruit way, sir. In the Spanish trade. His men are
Spaniards. They do say he's not quite to be trusted.”
“Who says this?” my uncle asked.
“I don't like to mention names, sir,” Ephraim said.
“Quite right. Quite right. But what do they say?”
“Very queer things goes on in that 'ouse,” said Ephraim. “I don't 'ardly
like to say. But they think 'e raises the devil, sir. Awful noises goes
on there. I seen some things myself there, as I don't like to talk of.
Well. I saw a black bird as big as a man stand flapping in the window.
Then I seen eyes glaring out at the door. They give the 'ouse a bad
name, sir; everyone.”
“H'm,” said my uncle. “What's he like, Martin, this Mr. Jermyn?”
“A tall man, with a beard,” I answered. I thought it wrong to mention
that I knew the beard to be false. “He's always stroking the bridge of
his nose with his hand.”
“Ha,” my uncle said, as though recognizing the trait. “But with a beard,
you tell me?”
“Yes, sir. With a beard.”
“H'm,” he answered, musing, “I must have a look at this Mr. Jermyn.
Remember, Martin, you're to have nothing more to do with him, till I
know a little more of what he is. You understand?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“One cannot be too careful in this town. I won't allow you in the
streets, Martin. No matter who has his pockets picked. I told you that
before.”
“Please, uncle, may I go on the river, then, if I'm not to go into the
street? I'm used to boats.”
“Yes. You may do that. But you're not to go on board the ships, mind.”
“Beg pardon, sir,” Ephraim put in. “The fall at the Bridge is very
risky, sir.”
“It is?” said my uncle, testily. “Then of course you can't go in a boat,
Martin. You must play in the garden, or read.”